


Codeine Crazy

by elwoodhannibal



Category: Aubrey Drake Graham - Fandom, Aubrey Graham, Drake (Musician) - Fandom, Future (Musician), Nayvadius Wilburn
Genre: Lean - Freeform, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:54:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13447074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwoodhannibal/pseuds/elwoodhannibal
Summary: Drake and Future are working on a new Certified Banger(TM) in the studio, when suddenly an evil power awakens and forces them to consider the unspeakable horrors of lean and trap music.





	Codeine Crazy

Aubrey and Nayvadius were working hard in the studio on one fine October afternoon. They were recording a new track for their autotune-laden masterpiece, "C0D31N3 L1F35TYL3", which was a robotic banger to say the least. The purple syrup which they rapped about made many appearances throughout the session, and they both were soon thoroughly hopped up on the sweet, forbidden nectar that is lean. Nayvadius had picked up the soda and syrup himself-- Aubrey always secretly loved it when he would concoct a mystery lean for him to sample. Today's particular cocktail was a combination of Hi-Tec cough syrup and Diet 7-Up. It was refreshing, high-inducing, and most importantly, low-calorie. Soon, they forgot about recording altogether and lounged around the studio sipping lean and making conversation.

"Yo Graham," slurred Nayvadius in his gravelly voice, "I have a secret for you that you should really know about."

Aubrey was busy dabbing codeine off of his flannel shirt with a $100 bill when he heard. He dropped the bill, and it fluttered to the ground. Future, as he was better known, wasn't the type to open up too much. He was closed off, a mysterious personality hidden behind an enigma of Xanax and wide-brimmed hats. Aubrey felt a surge of intrigue and piercing fear hit him deep inside the cerebral cortex as he turned to his partner.

"W-what is it, man?" he stuttered. His weakness was easily exposed now. The lean was getting to him. He couldn't hide his fear.

"When I first got into lean, and Xans, and all that... I started seeing things," Nayvadius explained. "Stuff you wouldn't believe, like alternate realities and weird demons and all that. Big swirly purple clouds and nasty leathery things that looked like my grandma's Chanel bag after being left out in the rain."

Aubrey was frozen to the spot, no longer worried about his codeine-stained shirt. He gulped as he took it all in. Why was he being told this? This wasn't typical of a guy like Future. The closest he ever got to opening up about anything was when he opened up his wallet in the strip club. So this was a terrifying experience for a guy like our poor victim Drizzy Drake here. He paused to say something, but Future continued.

"Soon enough, I realized that what I was seeing wasn't an illusion at all." He began to shed his raspy, smoke-stained voice now, and stopped using his choppy slang. He was articulating, clearly, not a hint of mumble in his voice. He was a commanding presence in the room. Drake began to reach for the Glock-18 he kept in the studio to raise his street cred. Then he remembered-- it was fake. He wouldn't dare to go so far as to buy a real gun, not as a born-and-bred Canadian and former Nick star. He sat on the nearest couch and prayed. But Nayvadius didn't stop there.

"A giant demon appeared to me during one of my more severe trips," he boomed. He was standing now, heading for a closet near the back of the studio. He seemed to be nonviolent, but Drake's heart continued to pound in his chest, more and more audibly now. "He was enormous. He was writhing and slithering and dwelled in a land of purple smog and hellish screams only imaginable by the most diseased of minds. He called himself the Lean Lord. He was a disgusting beast, with ritualistic markings all over his body and a haunting screech to his voice. And he said but one thing to me. He said he would allow lean to give me its wonderful pleasures as long as I give him sacrifice once it helps me make it big."  
Drake stood up, now more angry than scared. He bolted upright.

"Aye, Hendrix, we're cool and all, but I am NOT letting you sacrifice me to some cough syrup demon or whatever."

"See, Aubrey, that's the thing. I don't want to sacrifice you," said Nayvadius softly, now removing a strange book from the closet. "I'm going to be honest... I've liked you for a long time now. Ever since we recorded Where Ya At. Your voice, your talent, your maple syrup. But I guess that's all useless now, now that the Lean Lord is here."

Aubrey was dumbfounded by everything he just heard.

"Wait... you LIKE me? Uh-uh, man. I ain't gay, Fewtch. I ain't."

Future looked up from his book and only said one thing.

"Yes, you are."

"No, I-I ain't gay, man. I've been through this before."

"The Lean Lord also promised me superior intelligence with my lean. Trust me, you're a raging homosexual."

Well that was that. Drake HAD always had a weird feeling inside whenever Nayvadius' frazzled-onion locks would blow in the wind, leaving the scent of cheap grape flavoring flowing behind him. Now he knew. It was a rush of relief more than anything. But his feelings of hope were suddenly cut off once Future began speaking again.

"I'm going to ask you a huge favor, Aubrey." Future walked over to Drake and showed him what he was reading. It was a diagram of people surrounding a cult offering. A person, covered in dripping purple markings, and a wriggling demon of disgusting proportions lurked behind them. The header read: "OFFERINGS TO THE LEAN LORD".

"I want you to do as this ancient text says and offer me to the Lean Lord. He won't bother with this realm anymore once he claims me, a superior being. The secrets of lean will once again be sealed away in his realm. Peace will be restored once again."

Drake and Future, Aubrey and Nayvadius, they both looked into each other's eyes for a minute. Aubrey, comprehending the magnitude of the task at hand. Nayvadius, getting one last look at the man he loved before he was sacrificed to the great Lean Lord as a final offering. They looked around awkwardly, and then back at each other. The tension grew. Suddenly, IT happened. They performed acts on each other of a *different* kind of ritual, acts so graphic they would make a humble narrator reconsider his unwise life choices. They could taste the lean on each other's lips as they had at it for the first and last time on the floor of the recording studio.

And, as soon as the ecstatic feelings began, they ended, as they stood up and felt rumbling approaching the studio.

"THE LEAN LORD HAS ARRIVED," growled Future with a sense of wild urgency in his voice. He picked up the book and the Hi-Tec and beckoned for Aubrey to follow behind, which he did without having to be asked twice.

Out from the heavens above, storm clouds rolled across the sky. Clouds of purple, with a tinge of artificial grape flavoring. Future and Drake, popping Percocets furiously, with fear and lust in their eyes, rushed outside to confront the being that was about to consume its offering. And suddenly, it appeared to them, almost as if it could sniff out their mortal sins and over-the-counter pills.

Descending from a sky now raining purple, a large, leathery figure appeared. It flashed a golden-toothed smile as its long, tightly-wound black locks blew back in the wind. Its body covered in dark, wretched markings no mortal man could comprehend, with a voice that sounded like the screeching of a thousand mortal souls. Undoubtedly, the Lean Lord had arrived, and it sought vengeance.

“Yo, Aubrey, there it is. The thing I sold my soul to for radio hits and stacks of hundreds. Are you ready to make the offering?”

Drake was stuck to the spot, knees buckled, Gucci jeans soaked in all-natural Canadian urine.

“Uu--uuh, man, Hendrix, I--I’m havin’ second thoughts, man.”

“Did you pee on yourself?”

“A little.”

“Sweet Jesus, Aubrey. I can’t believe I [EXTREMELY CENSORED] you with a [UNBELIEVABLY CENSORED] and a [SO, SO VERY CENSORED] on the floor of that recording studio, man. Pull yourself together. The Lean Lord waits for no man.”

No, no it did not. They turned from their conversation to stare into the lifeless eyes of the Lean Lord himself, a being towering over them with an unrelenting pressure. It… actually seemed pretty annoyed that they kept it waiting so long. And severely grossed out.

“UH. DID YOU JUST SAY [UNBELIEVABLY CENSORED]?” the Lean Lord growled.

“Yeah, I did,” said Future matter-of-factly.

“GOOD GOD.”  
“That ain’t the point, man. What do you want with me?”

“DON’T BE DAFT, FUTURE MY BOY. YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHY I’M HERE. I REQUIRE TASTY, HIGH-ROBITUSSIN SACRIFICE IN ORDER TO KEEP THE TRAP REALM IN ORDER. THE LAST TIME SOMEONE FAILED TO PAY UP, WE LET JAKE PAUL ESCAPE THE NINTH CIRCLE. DO YOU REALLY WANT ANOTHER ASSHOLE LIKE THAT RUNNING AROUND?”

“No, I don’t. Let’s do this thing.”

Future motioned for Drake, attempting now to soak up the urine with a fresh wad of Benjamins, to follow him and the Lean Lord into a nearby abandoned warehouse.

They gathered into a circle, where a pentagram had been drawn on the floor and candles were already burning at all five points. Above it, the sacred words were scrawled:

“Swagger tighter than a yeast infection. Fly, go hard like geese erection.” -Lil Waynicus

“STEP INTO THE CIRCLE”, screeched the Lean Lord, salivating at the sight of Future’s wide-brimmed, custom-fitted hat walking into his ritual circle.

“Drizzy, it’s time,” said Future morosely. He stared into the eyes of his lover one last time, a single purple-tinted tear dripping from his eye.

Drake stared back, saddened but unflinching. The scent of stale urine continued to waft off of him, but now he was wholly consumed with delaying the ritual that would ultimately consume Nayvadius Wilburn and take him to the realm where they kept all the white rappers trying to be Eminem. It was a fate worse than death.

“WAIT!” screamed Drake, with a distinct Toronto timbre to his voice. “Take me instead.”

“Aubrey, please--”

“No, Fewtch. You’ve got so much more to offer this world. I’ve already sung about all the strippers and bartenders I’ve ever met. My tale has been told.”

“AND WHY SHOULD I TAKE YOU INSTEAD OF HIM, HUH, PISS-JEANS? HE’S THE ONLY ONE WHO CAN BABYSIT YUNG ANAL BEAD AND KUUNVIKTID PED-O-FILE WHILE I’M OFF TORTURING SOULS EVERY DAY. HE HAS MUCH MORE THAT I WANT IN A RAPPER. AUTOTUNE, METRO BOOMIN’ PRODUCTION, AND A BACKGROUND THAT DOESN’T INVOLVE _DEGRASSI_.”

“But I’ve got the cooler merch. Plus I can get you front-row tickets to any Raptors game you’ve ever wanted to see.”

“With all due respect,” Future interjected, “Nobody gives a shit about the Raptors.”

“THE BOY’S RIGHT. THE RAPTORS ARE VERY FORGETTABLE.” The Lean Lord slammed his fist against the wall in impatience, leaving a dent in the wake of his fist. “I’VE MADE MY DECISION. LET ME RECITE THE SACRED TEXTS AND NAYVADIUS WILL BE IN MY REALM FOREVER.”

The Lean Lord used a motion that looked suspiciously lawsuit-level similar to a Force Grip from Star Wars to metaphorically chain Drake to the spot as he read from his book.

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THEY WANT FROM ME--”

Drake screamed as he watched Future begin to fade away in a cloud of purple smoke. The candles burned ever brighter, and the Lean Lord’s strange markings glowed with an ancient power.

“IT’S LIKE THE MORE MONEY WE COME ACROSS--”

Future began to scream in pain too now, with Drake crying and producing yet another pee stream trickling down the other leg. The Lean Lord's hulking mass towered overhead, pulsing with energy, as his voice grew louder. The flames started to lap at the brim of Future’s hat.

“THE MORE PROBLEMS WE SEE!”

The room exploded in a haze of flame and smoke. The Lean Lord’s body towered over the spot where Future had been moments ago, now leaving behind a few wisps of hair and a Gucci belt buckle.

“WELL KID, IT’S BEEN FUN BUT NOT REALLY. ATLANTIC RECORDS FOREVER, NEW MIXTAPE OUT SOON. PEACE OUT, HOES.”

The Lean Lord zipped off into the sky, Lorax-style, swallowed by a vortex of clouds into a realm of awful mixtapes and awful-er rap names. Drake tried to convince himself that Future was in a better place now, but he knew that wasn’t true. The white rappers would torture his soul forever, screaming about how much better than Tupac they were while flashing big wads of $1 bills and telling each other to “square up”.

He collapsed on the floor of the shed, clutching the belt buckle in his supple Canadian hands, and cried big-boy tears over the loss of his autotune-laden comrade.

“M...mask off,” he wept.

“Fuck it… mask off.”


End file.
